The Medusa Plot

The Medusa Plot is the first book of the Cahills vs. Vespers series. It takes place after the Casper Wyoming incident in Vespers Rising. It will be written by Gordon Korman. It will be released on August 30, 2011. The cover of The Medusa Plot has many notable differences to the other 39 Cluesbooks. Mainly, the 6 Cards Inside design is different and the logo is red.

Some have predicted that part of the story will take place in Florence, Italy because of the cover. Pntapisora had a blog post that said that it is a painting by Caravaggio, and it is called Head of Medusa. The blog post also said that the painting is found in the Uffizi Gallery. Summary: Amy and Dan going to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy and stealing Caravaggio's Head of Medusa.

Napa Valley, California, 5:42 a.m., Pacific Time Zone
Fiske Cahill loved the early morning — the glorious moment when the sun’s rays broke over the mountain tops. He would always be an easterner, but there was no place quite like California. He eased himself into the mineral bath, feeling the bracing sting of water heated by magma trapped deep within the earth. The ache and stiffness of his sixtynine-year-old body seemed to melt away, and he knew complete relaxation and contentment. Nothing could spoil the perfection of this moment. He closed his eyes. That was his first mistake.
There was a tiny splash as the snake hit the water. It was a water moccasin, a baby — the venom is strongest in the very young. Fiske never saw it. He was aware of a sudden stab, followed by blinding pain and then blackness. Two men in coveralls lifted him out of the tub and administered a tiny injection of antivenom to his
abdomen. Then they wrapped him up in a vinyl pool cover, carried him to a panel truck, and loaded him inside. As an afterthought, one of the men fished the snake out of the water and tossed it into some tall grass. If it
survived and happened to bite another resort guest, it was no concern of theirs.

Ponce, Puerto Rico, 9:42 a.m., Atlantic Time Zone

Long, powerful strokes propelled Reagan Holt through
the sparkling Caribbean. At thirteen, she had already
completed seven Ironman triathlons, but now she was
training for the world championships. Puerto Rico’s
lesser-known southern coast was the ideal place for
it — great weather, uncrowded roads for running and
cycling, and warm, crystal-clear water for swimming.
There was even entertainment for these grueling ocean
marathons. Through her goggles, she enjoyed the floor
show: hundreds of fish species, colorful coral, and . . .
A jolt of surprise threw off her rhythm, and she
struggled to maintain her textbook form. At first she
thought it was an undersea mirage, but no. Twenty
yards away, a few feet below the surface, floated a
scuba diver in an antishark cage!
What’s going on?
That was when she saw the hammerhead.
It was big—an eighteen footer at least. It moved in a
serpentine pattern, its oddly placed eyes sweeping the
reef. When its attention locked on Reagan, she knew
instantly. The long body became a guided missile hurtling
toward her. Panic was immediate and total. Not
even the fastest human could outswim a shark.
The cage. It was her only option. She made for it,
expecting at any moment to feel the devastating bite
of jagged teeth. The diver read her mind and opened
the cage door. She flung herself inside, slamming the
gate shut behind her just as the hammer-shaped snout
smashed into the titanium bars. The very sea itself
seemed to shake. Reagan was thrown back against
the frame, but the structure held.
The diver pulled on a signal rope, and a mechanical
winch began to lift the cage out of the water. As they
broke the surface, she spied the boat. Relief flooded
over her. The cost of this training session would not
be her life.
Crew members swung them in over the gunwale
and set them down on the deck.
It was all Reagan could do to maintain her footing
as she stepped onto the wood planking. “Thanks, you
guys! That was so close —”
And then she noticed that one of the sailors was
pointing a gun at her.

London, UK, 1:42 p.m., Greenwich Mean Time Zone

When anyone advised Natalie Kabra to “find a happy
place,” that place was always Harrods.
That was the reason for this mental health day
away from her boarding school. When the going gets
tough, the tough go shopping. And where better than
the most famous department store in the world, located
in the heart of London’s Knightsbridge?
A glance at a bus-stand billboard took the
wind out of her sails. It was an advertisement for
AidWorksWonders, a nonprofit organization dedicated
to global disaster relief. Peering compassionately out
was the organization’s founder, radiating charity,
goodwill, and kindness.
Natalie didn’t believe it for a second, and she was
in a position to know. That woman, Isabel Kabra,
was Natalie’s mother — a hard-hearted, cold-blooded
conspirator, arsonist, murderer, and terrorist. The
only reason she had formed an organization that
did good in the world was that it had been her ticket
out of jail, to parole and community service. Natalie
pitied the poor community Isabel was assigned
to serve.
Just the sight of her mother almost made her turn
around and go back to school. It had been Mum who
had first introduced her to Harrods. But one couldn’t
blame Harrods for that, Natalie concluded, stepping in
through the brass-plated revolving door.
Muscle memory took her directly to the Girls’
department — designer only, of course. Without once
consulting a price tag, she collected an armload of outfits
and headed for the fitting room. She stepped inside,
wondering at the second click that came a moment
after she shut the door. She tried the handle. Locked.
And then her world tilted, dropping her against the
mirror. The entire cubicle lifted suddenly and began
to move forward.
In the Girls’ department, the shoppers paid little
attention to the large box being carried out of the
department by two employees in Harrods uniforms.
No one heard the screams that could not penetrate the
soundproof enclosure.

Paris, France, 2:42 p.m., Central European Time Zone

To Nellie Gomez, Les Fraises was the best sidewalk café
in Paris, and she had tried most of them.
Nellie adored Paris. As much as she missed home,
this monthlong class in French cuisine was a dream
come true. She loved living in a place where nose rings
and punk-rock hair and makeup were considered completely
normal. She loved the sights of the city, from the
ancient Roman ruins to the ultramodern glass pyramid
entrance to the Louvre.
But mostly, she loved the food. Her seminar on
sauces had run through lunch, which gave her the
perfect excuse to visit Les Fraises in the state she was
usually in — hungry.
The chocolate-strawberry croissant looked a little
different as the waitress placed the plate on the table
next to her espresso. Was that confectioner’s sugar on
top? Was the chef trying to improve upon perfection?
She was anxious to find out.
Nellie raised the pastry to her lips.
Poof!
A cloud of powder burst from the croissant, enveloping
her face. It was gone in a few seconds. But by then,
Nellie was slumped in her seat, unconscious.
An ambulance pulled up to the café. Two whitecoated
attendants emerged. They lifted Nellie out from
behind the table, loaded her into the back, and drove
away.

Tel Aviv, Israel, 3:42 p.m., Israel Standard Time Zone

“This way, children.”
Alistair Oh held out his arm and guided Ned and
Ted Starling into the elevator of the medical office
building. How tragic it was that Alistair, at sixty-six,
would be offering his assistance to two teenagers in the
very prime of youth and strength. It should have been
the other way around.
Alas, such was the legacy of the search for the 39
Clues. The boys had been victims of a cowardly act of
sabotage at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia. Ned
now suffered headaches of such intensity that he could
not concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.
He was the lucky one. His brother was legally blind.
Alistair sighed. Perhaps Dr. Shallit could help. That
was the purpose of their trip to Israel — to see the
foremost neurologist in the world. He had achieved
miraculous results for patients with similar injuries.
Alistair pressed the button, and the elevator began
to ascend. At the eighteenth floor, the car slowed and
stopped.
The door did not open.
The next thing he knew, they were dropping, freefalling
down the elevator shaft, picking up speed.
“Children —” The word died on his lips. There was
nothing reassuring to say about plummeting two
hundred feet to a violent death.
He tightened his grip on the boys’ forearms. What
an odd place for their lives to end. Yet it was somehow
fitting that members of the same family branch should
perish together.
In the space of a few vertical feet, the elevator went
from terminal velocity to a dead stop. The sudden
deceleration flattened all three of them to the floor.
Ned bumped his head and cried out in pain and fear.
The door opened. Three large men blocked the
entrance to the underground parking garage, their
faces obscured by desert head scarves. The leader
reached down to grab Alistair. He underestimated
the older man’s determination. Alistair’s diamondhandled
cane came up and fractured the man’s wrist.
The attacker cursed and withdrew in pain.
Alistair boosted the boys to their feet. “Run!” he
ordered.
Ned took his blind brother’s arm, ducked beneath
the hands that were reaching for them, and took off
down a long row of cars. One of the assailants followed
in hot pursuit.
They were almost at the exit when Ted stubbed his
foot against a cement parking curbstone. He never hit
the floor. Their pursuer grabbed him in a powerful
bear hug.
Ned hesitated as the onslaught of another headache
shattered everything in his mind except pain.
No. Not now —
With almost superhuman effort, he turned back to
his brother. Ted was caught, and Alistair was subdued
back at the elevator. Only he was free.
Alistair’s voice echoed in the concrete space. “Go!
Call William McIntyre!”
With a heavy heart, Ned Starling fled.

Tokyo, Japan, 10:42 p.m., Japan Standard Time Zone

Phoenix Wizard was searching for the hip-hop vibe.
That’s what his cousin Jonah had told him to look
for. It should have been easy to find in a crowd of
screaming fans, all jumping, stomping, and shouting
along with Jonah Wizard, the number one
recording artist on the planet.
The teenage rapper was spectacular. From the upper
decks of the enormous stadium he must have appeared
insect-size on the stage far below. And yet every move,
every beat, every “wassup, yo” sent ripples through
the audience. Jonah was a hip-hop hypnotist, and all
sixty-five thousand people in the arena were obeying
his commands — to get wild, get loud, get down.
Except one.
Phoenix worshipped his A-list cousin. What twelve-year-
old boy wouldn’t idolize a celebrity? And Jonah
wasn’t just famous in the music world. He had starred
in several movies, including Gangsta Kronikles, his first
blockbuster; he had his own reality TV show. His face
was immortalized on PEZ dispensers and motorized
lollipop holders. Paparazzi followed him everywhere.
Yet the music — that was the part that left Phoenix
flat. He would have cut his tongue out before saying it
aloud, but he thought it was truly awful. Just talking,
really. Bragging in time to a simple repeating beat.
Why can’t I see what all these people see?
Jonah began to whip up the crowd to even greater
heights. “I love Tokyo — it’s the only place where ‘yo’
is part of the name of the town! Get up and show me
some moves!”
The response was seismic. Those fans who weren’t
already standing rose to their feet in a wave of tens of
thousands of bodies. Phoenix was up with them, hoping
that their enthusiasm was contagious.
He felt nothing. What could be more pathetic than
a Wizard with no rhythm? All around him, people
were gyrating as if their very lives depended on it. He
watched, amazed, as bodies were lifted up and rolled
across the top of the crowd, passing from hand to hand.
A teen girl floated over him, her expression sheer
bliss. She had found the hip-hop vibe.
Determined to share the experience, he climbed
onto the armrest of his seat, literally hoisting himself
onto the “roof” of the audience. He felt a thrill when
he started to move, twirling as he skimmed above the
concertgoers’ heads. For some reason, there was no
fear. The thousands of hands created a seamless
surface. It was almost like swimming — riding ocean
currents around the stadium. This was awesome! He
couldn’t wait to tell Jonah about it after the concert.
And the ride was getting better! He seemed to be
picking up speed. But why was he heading away from
the stage toward one of the exit tunnels? That wasn’t
where the action was!
Then he was down out of the throng, in the darkness
of the concrete passage, flanked by two men in
mirrored sunglasses.
“What —?”
A foul-smelling wet cloth covered his face. He
attempted to struggle, but one whiff of the chloroform
brought oblivion.

Although they took place in different time zones
throughout the world, the kidnappings were executed
at exactly the same moment. The victims had only one
thing in common: All seven were members of the Cahill Family, the most powerful family in human history. The kidnappings were by who? The Vespers.